When It Rains

Massive re-write underway. My writer’s block has at long last been cured by the realization that I really didn’t like the direction this story was taking. It was getting a little lost so I’ve gone back to the proverbial drawing board. The same basic plot line exists but with necessary changes. I hope you all will like it and will continue to read it as we discover together just what’s going to happen with Severus, Hermione and Devlin. Thanks to all who’ve waited so patiently for an update.

Harry Potter and all those characters, locations, and many wonderful, fanciful things associated with him are all the property of J.K Rowling. I own nothing save my own characters. Many thanks to the muse.

Chapter 1

Morning came as it had the day before, bright and cheerful sunlight streaming through the sheer curtains of her bedroom window. With an exaggerated yawn, Hermione Granger stretched her arms and scowled at the alarm clock buzzing on her bedside table. It was just after eight a.m. on Saturday morning and already she could hear the steady thump of base and the occasional shriek of guitar coming from the room next to hers.
Rolling her eyes, the she tossed back the quilt covering her body and swung her feet to floor. After swiping up her dressing grown from a white-washed wicker chair in the corner, Hermione slid her arms inside and marched quickly to the source of the offensive music.
Pounding her closed fist against the door marked \"Death to Trespassers\" she shouted over the music, \"Good morning!\" before walking sluggishly back down the hallway to her own bedroom. An hour later she emerged casually dressed in fitted, low rise jeans and a tight, black baby tee. Her feet were bare and her long, mahogany hair had been tamed into a high pony-tail, held in place by a studded leather clasp. Yawning once more she slipped quietly into the kitchen, sneaking up on its occupant.
Stealthily, she crept across the ceramic tiled floor towards the black-clad figure perched atop one of the wrought iron stools lining the bar. Just as she was about to pounce on her prey, the dark-haired young man said without turning around, \"G\'morning, Mom.\"
Stopping mid-pounce, Hermione asked, \"How the hell do you do that, Dev?\" as she took a seat next to her son and picked up the Times.
\"It\'s a gift,\" Devlin replied as he slowly sipped his espresso. \"Nice outfit, by the way,\" he added with a twist of his lips.
Stealing a glance at her fifteen year old son, Hermione noticed the smirk and found herself thinking, He looks too much like his father when he does that. Reminding herself that she wasn\'t going to think about the past, she put aside the newspaper and padded over to the refrigerator to pour a glass of juice.
\"So, you feel like giving me a hand today or have you already made plans?\" she asked as she put the carton back in the sub-zero.
Devlin stood and walked over to the sink where he stared out the window for a moment before replying. \"I had plans to go into the Village with Rafe and a few of the guys from school but right now I just don\'t feel like it.\"
With concerned eyes, she regarded her son. Outwardly, he appeared hale and hearty, towering over her at just over six feet. His dark brown hair was cut short and styled in a spiky, haphazard fashion. Fair, flawless skin was stretched tightly over high, defined cheekbones. A deep frown turned down the corners of his lips, making the boy seem much older than his young years. Looking closer, Hermione could see the shadows under his piercing eyes, a testament to too many restless nights.

The serenity he projected was deceiving. He stood facing the window above the sink, hands stuffed in the pockets of his jeans. The casual stance did nothing to hinder the commanding aura that he’d inherited from his father. Although he was thin, his shoulders were broad, encased in a long-sleeved, black turtleneck. The ribbed sweater exaggerated his narrow build but showcased his toned body at the same time. He was a handsome one, her son. And powerful too. She could feel it coming off of him in waves, stronger now with his heightened emotions.

“Tell me about it?” she urged quietly. Devlin didn’t move from where he stood. The slight shrug of shoulders born for Quidditch was the only indication that he’d even heard her quietly spoken question.

“Dev...” Hermione prodded. “Don’t make me use the Veratiserum.” A hint of a smile tugged at his lips as he tried not to give in to his mother’s inquiry. He wanted to tell her what was bothering him. He really did. The only problem was, he didn’t want to hurt her and he was certain that suddenly demanding to know who his father was after fifteen years of ignoring the man’s absence in his life would most likely cause her pain. Sometimes when she thought he wasn’t looking she would get this far away look in her eyes and he knew that she was remembering him: he whom she had never named.

“It’s nothing, Mum,” he said, turning to draw her into a firm hug. “I’m just tired.”

Pulling back, Hermione regarded her son skeptically. “You’re sure?” At his nod, she added, “Just promise me you’ll come to me or Gran or even Uncle Ron if something is bothering you, okay?”
in hin he nodded then pocketed his keys and cellular phone. Placing sunglasses over his whiskey-colored eyes, he gave his mother a quick kiss on the cheek. “Guess I’ll go with Rafe after all. I’ll be by to help you and Gran after lunch.”

“Call me if you’re going to stay out later. And for Merlin’s sake, NO magic!”

Smiling mischievously, he said, “I promise, just an old-fashioned muggle excursion into the heart of the big bad city.”

“Only my child would use such words. Off you go,” she said, shooing him down the staif thf their Westside townhouse. “Have fun, Dev. Love you.”

Waving a hand in the air above his head, he said, “Love you too, Mum” as he rushed out the front door.

With a sigh, Hermione trudged back up the stairs to finish getting dressed for the day ahead. In her heart she believed that she had done the right thing in not telling Devlin about his father. She’d made a promise, a promise that she believed had been justified. But there were moments when she doubted her decision. It was at times like earlier in the kitchen when she began to have second thoughts. Was it really fair for her son to know nothing about his father?
“Damn you!” She said aloud then screamed, “Damn you, you Slytherin son of a bitch!” Tears were rolling down her cheeks as she pulled on a pair of thick-soled black boots and slipped her arms into a black leather driving jacket.

With a frustrated laugh, Hermione wiped her eyes and grabbed her purse, slinging it over her shoulder. With the steely resolve of a true Gryffindor, she pulled her front door shut and after turning the key in lock, set out to face the day. A day that would change her life and the life of her son forever.


LONDON

With hurried steps, a dark-haired man in his early thirties dashed through Heathrow trying desperately to make his flight bound for the States before last call. He made it just as they were closing the gate. Flying (in the muggle sense at least) wasn’t his favorite form of travel but when measured against the intricacies of trans-Atlantic apparating, he’d choose it any day.

Handing back his boarding pass and ignoring the gold band on his left hand, the flight attendant remarked with a seductive smile, “Enjoy your flight, Mr. Potter.”

Blushing slightly under the pretty young woman’s approving stare, he murmured a ‘thank you’ before boarding the aircraft. Harry’s composure slipped a little as he settled into his seat. During his time at the Ministry of Magic he’d never done anything he loathed as much as what he was boarding this plane to do. Not even facing down Voldemort could be compared to his current mission. Knots formed in his stomach as he recalled the conversation he’d had with his father-in-law just a few short hours ago.

Flashback

Thank Merlin! Harry said to himself as he came across the parchment he’d torn his office apart in effort to find. Taking the yellowed page in hand, he scribbled his signature across the bottom and after replacing his quill went in search of his superior, Arthur Weasley. Harry had arrived surprisingly on time to his meeting with the Minister of Magic only to find his former professor, Severus Snape in deep (and from the look of it) disturbing conversation with the man.

“I’m sorry, am I interrupting?” he inquired. Two heads turned swiftly in his direction. A look crossed his former potions professor’s face that he couldn’t readily identify. Arthur cleared his throat and appeared extremely uncomfortable.

“Harry,” his employer began. “I have some...you’d better sit down. And close the door too.”

A sudden feeling of dread washed over him as he did as he was instructed. Taking a seat next to Snape in a burgundy leather chair, Harry asked, “Arthur, are you all right?”

“Harry,” he began again, only to falter, not being able to continue. Snape was experiencing the lev level of saddened emotions but was more adept at keeping them hidden. Turning away from the minister, he picked up where the other man had left off.

“What Arthur was trying to say, Mr. Potter, is that Albus is failing.” His words were clipped and concise. The only evidence of Severus’ remorse at being the barer of such tidings was the tick in his cheek and the clenching of his left hand.

No! Harry’s mind screamed. It just wasn’t possible. He refused to believe that Professor Dumbledore was in such poor health. Surging to his feet, he lashed out at Snape.

“You lie! He isn’t failing. He’s not, I tell you!”

Coming from anyone other than Harry, the words might have been childish in the extreme, but Severus and Arthur both understood the younger man’s devotion to the aging headmaster.

“I’m sorry, Harry. Truly sorry. But I speak the truth. I came here today at Albus’ request. He wants to see you. He’s asked for you... and the other members of the Order.”

Nodding, Harry could say nothing. His eyes fixed on some spot on the floor. The pause in his former professor’s plea caught his attention and when their eyes met, he knew what Severus would ask of him without a word being uttered.

“I’ll go to her,” he said. Snape relaxed visibly, the knuckles of his left hand, fading from e toe to a more natural shade as he unclenched his fingers. “I’ll go straight away.”

Present

The last thing Harry wanted to do was tell his closest friend was that the man they’d loved and respected for more than twenty years was dying. She’d suffered so much during the war, he didn’t want to cause her more pain or bring back painful memories. Hermione had fought hard to make a place for herself in the wizarding community during her time at Hogwart’s only to have her achievements and abilities overlooked in the end. They’d all lost something in the fight against Voldemort. No one had been untouched by the dark lord’s evil, least of all the muggle-born witch who represented everything he’d despised. No, Hermione had suffered more than anyone.

The fight had claimed the life of her father when the Death Eaters had come calling at her parents’ door. Patrick Granger had tried desperately to keep them from taking his daughter, sacrificing his life only to have her stolen from his grasp. Hermione had received only minor injuries in the struggle that night but it was not Voldemort’s plan to kill the young witch. Not right away at least. He wanted to break her, to punish her for being more than he believed it possible for her to be. But she was strong and fought against her captor until beaten, bruised and bleeding he had broken her spirit as her trust was violated in unison with her body. The fight claimed her innocence, taking it as a trophy that was proudly displayed and flaunted amongst Voldemort’s inner circle.

When she was finally recovered, it had taken weeks for her to tell anyone what had happened in the Malfoy dungeons. She shied away from human contact and withdrew into herself. The news of her father’s death had been her undoing. Ironically, it was the life growing inside her that had saved her. Madame Pomfrey had urged her to terminate the pregnancy, arguing that it was an abomination to give life to something conceived in hate and violence. Everyone had tried to talk her out of keeping the baby, even himself. Harry didn’t understand at the time why she would want it, a constant reminder of the crimes committed against her.

Hermione would simply laugh quietly and rub her stomach saying, “It wasn’t his fault.” For many years to come,ry hry had believed she was speaking of the child growing within her. It was along time before he came to understand that it wasn’t the child she was speaking of but the man who’d fathered him.

Sighing deeply, Harry leaned his head back against his seat and closed his eyes, choosing instead to remember the good times as he drifted off to sleep.


NEW YORK


With a muffled groan, Hermione rolled her shoulders and rubbed the back of her neck, trying to ease the soreness from her body as she sat curled over her ledgers. She had been closeted away for most of the morning evaluating her inventory and reviewing her profits and losses for the quarter. Although she had a sharp mind and was well above average intelligence, she was experiencing a great deal of difficulty making her figures match up. The conversation she’d had with Devlin earlier that day kept replaying in mind, bringing old doubts to the surface and wrecking her concentration.

He’d seemed so lost. He was rapidly growing into a man and before long he would be leaving her for University. The realization that her son would reach his majority in just a few short years caused a deep, burning ache in her chest. For the past fifteen years he’d been her whole world, the very reason for her existence. It was this selfish need to keep him close to her that had prompted Hermione to send him to school him in New York rather than send him to one of the more traditional boarding institutions. If she’d sent him to the Salem School he’d have been near, but not near enough to suit her. So instead, she filled in the gaps in his magical education wherever needed.

Although the Manhattan Institute for Magical Studies was a well respected school, Hermione felt that there were many deficiencies in the core curriculum. With those short-comings in mind, she had been giving her son extra lessons at home. Under her care and instruction, Devlin had been trained in nearly every aspect of wizardry known. The basement of their townhouse had been converted into a potions laboratory and the third floibraibrary boasted some of the most sought after works to be found anywhere. Deep down, she wished that he could have had the same education that she’d had, to benefit from the friendships and adventures that only Hogwarts could have provided. Unfortunately, that kind of thinking only served to dredge up the past and that damned promise she’d made to his father.

Cursing the man who’d fathered her son for the second time that day, Hermione glanced at her watch, surprised to discover that the lunch hour had come and gone and she’d not seen or heard from her son. Making a mental note to phone him after she’d eaten, Hermione stood and stretched as she moved out from behind her desk. Leaning over the second floor railing she called out to her mother.

“Mum? Are you ready for lunch yet?”

“Anytime, dear,” Lilian Granger replied, her feet propped up on the purchase counter as she read the latest issue of Witch Weekly. Hermione rolled her eyes as she dusted off her jeans and walked down the creaking wooden steps to the first floor. Her eyes lovingly caressed the gleaming shelves, crammed tight with rare and hard to find tomes. This was her home away from home. The one place she could retreat to when at odds with the world. There was just something about being surrounded by knowledge that appealed to her in every way.

When her mother had suggested they open a bookstore together, Hermione had jumped at the idea, needing something to keep her mind and heart away from all that she’d lost and left behind in England. It was there in New York City that she’d been able to heal at long last, finding her salvation amongst endless pages of words and in the joyous discovery of each new day spent with her young son.

She was smiling quietly to herself as she crossed the polished floors of the bookstore to where her mother sat. Looking up from the magazine she’d been reading, Lilian regarded her daughter in much the same way that Hermione had regarded her son earlier that morning. Over the past fifteen years, Hermione had grown from a scrawny, bushy-haired, big-toothed know-it-all to a shapely, beautiful, and quite successful woman. However there was one area of her daughter’s life that was oddly lacking.

“I met the most intriguing man on my way in this morning,” Lilian began, knowing full well the explosion that was about to come.

“Mother!” Hermione screeched in exasperation. “We’ve been through this a thousand times. No, no and hell no.”

“Honestly, dear,” her mother admonished. “Such language is hardly becoming of a lady.”

Hermione rolled her eyes as she picked up her cell phone and dialed Devlin’s number, deciding to call him now instead of after lunch. “Since when am I a lady?” she asked playfully. “All right, all right,” she conceded. “I’ll let you tell me all about this fascinating young man after I check on Devlin.”

Counting the rings, she waited for her son to answer. On the fourth ring, he finally picked up.

“Yeah, Mum. What’s up?” he asked after checking his caller ID. Currently, Devlin was seated on a stone bench in Central Park playing chess with an opponent he suspected was a far better player than himself.

“Just calling to see if you wanted to join Gran and I for a late lunch.”

“Can’t. I’m kinda caught up right now.”

“Where are you?” she asked, her curiosity piqued.

“In the Park, playing chess,” he replied. Then said with cocky self-assurance, “Check.”

“Chess, Devlin?”

Grinning wickedly, he reassured her, “Don’t worry, Mum. It’s not wizard’s chess by any means.”

His gaze was riveted on the board contemplating his next move when his opponent inquired, “Wizard’s chess?” in a smooth, voice, the accent unmistakably English.

“Never mind,” Devlin countered. “Your move, mate.” Though the boy had grown up in the United States, he had picked up English slang from his mother and Uncle Ron.

Long, elegant fingers hovered briefly over the board before settling on a pawn. With a quick flick of his writhe the Englishman knocked Devlin’s bishop out of the way and said, “Check mate.”

“Bloody hell,” he said before resuming his conversation with his mother. “Sorry, Mum. Yeah, I know watch my language.”

A smirk turned up the corners of the Englishman’s mouth as he listened to the boy’s conversation with his mother. He was a handsome lad, probably around sixteen or so. And a damn fine chess player as well. But it was the remark about ‘wizard’s chess’ that had gotten his attention. Central Park was an odd place for a wizardry student, especially during the middle of term. Picking up his queen, the Englishman tossed it up and down absently, waiting for the boy to finish his call so that he could engage him in another game.

“No, really, Mum. I don’t mind. I need a few more things anyway. So, I’ll see you there then. Love you, too. Bye.” Hanging up, Devlin slipped the small phone into a pocket in the pant leg of his jeans. “Sorry about that. Mum wanting to know if I was coming for lunch.”

Raising his eyebrows mockingly, the Englishman chose to push for an answer to the conclusion he’d drawn. “Fascinating muggle invention, the telephone. Much more convenient than relying on owls, don’t you think?”

Devlin was shocked but quickly masked his initial reaction, choosing instead to play dumb. “What’s a muggle?” he asked innocently, his eyes meeting the cool, silver stare of the man seated across from him.

“You’re clever, I’ll give you that. And a quick thinker. Though I find it rather odd that you’d be enjoying a day in the Park instead of suffering the stifling confines of your boarding school. Which one is it, by the way? Salem? New Orleans?”

Growing intrigued by the Englishman’s apparent knowledge of the wizarding community but wary nonetheless, the boy treaded carefully. “Why don’t you tell me since you seem to have everything already figured out.”

Bravo! The Englishman thought to himself. The boy had guts and spirit, reminding him very much of a certain Griffindor he once knew. Shaking off the memory, the Englishman, brought his right hand to his chin as he studied the young man. The sun chose that moment to glitter off the silver, serpentine ring on his forefinger, catching the boy’s attention and eliciting a gasp from him.

“Slytherin!” Devlin whispered in awe. He’d never met anyone else who’d attended Hogwarts besides his mother or Uncle Ron and they’d both been Gryffindors. Like his mother, Devlin had read Hogwarts: A History numerous times and recognized the Slytherin Crest upon the Englishman’s ring right away.

The boy’s knowledge of Hogwarts suddenly doubled his interest, a nagging suspicion forming in the back of his mind. “You don’t attend Hogwarts.” It wasn’t a question but rather a statement of fact.

Smirking, a sly smile that bore a chilling resemblance one the Englishman had seen many times before, Devlin replied, “What makes you so certain?”

“Because, my dear boy, I happen to be the head of Slytherin House at Hogwarts and I don’t think I would have been able to miss such a worthy opponent.”

Devlin’s cell rang once more, interrupting the cautious banter between them. “What!” he yelled into the phone, not bothering to look at the caller ID. Screeching greeted his unthinking remark and he had to pull the phone away from his ear.

“Sorry, Mum. Really I am. I didn’t know it was you...I’m still in the Park...I know, I’m sorry.” Pausing to cover the mic with his hand, Devlin asked the Englishman, “Want to join us for lunch?” At the man’s slow nod, he continued, “Can I bring someone with me? Okay, cool. Thanks. See you in a few. Love you.”

After he hung up a second time, he replaced the phone in his pocket and stood up to leave. “You coming?” he asked the Englishman.

Nodding again, the Englishman rose and asked, “A bit late for lunch, isn’t it?”

“That’s Mum for you. She’s always running late. She could use a Time Turner and still manage to show up late.”

The man laughed, a deep reverberating sound, that chilled every bit as much as it warmed. “I never did ask you your name,” he remarked as they left the Chess and Checkers House and worked their way towards the street.

“Oh, sorry,” the boy replied, extending his hand. “Devlin Granger.”

The Englishman’s slight grin became a broad and toothy smile as he shook the boy’s slender hand and replied, “A pleasure, Devlin. Truly a pleasure.”

Devlin began to smile as well, hoping that at long last he might learn about his mother’s past and just maybe, find out about his father as well. Although Hermione had told him about her education at Hogwarts, she had left out many of the more important details, especially those that pertained to the man who had fathered him as well as her part in the fall of Voldemort. There was a spring in Devlin’s step as he and the nameless Englishman set out for Crookshanks’ Corner.

“You didn’t tell me your name, sir,” he remarked absently as they climbed the steps that would lead them out of the park.

Beside him, the fair haired man tensed, his posture becoming rigid. “No, Devlin, I didn’t.”

“May I ask why?” the boy asked, growing wary at the man’s evasive behavior.

“I know your mother, Devlin. We went to school together.”

“You knew my mother? At Hogwarts?” Devlin was transfixed.

“Yes, Devlin, at Hogwarts. And here I had taken you for a boy of extreme intelligence and yet you have shown an annoying similarity to your devoted Uncle Ron by repeating my words in the form of a question. Tsk, tsk.” The Englishman, shook his head in a superior fashion somehow managing not to disturb his lengthy locks.

Offended by the older man’s harsh words, Devlin drew himself up to his full height and assumed the disturbingly calm and commanding presence that his mother had witnessed earlier that same morning. A sneer found it’s way to his lips as his eyes narrowed on the Englishman.

“While I’m certain that pithy attempt at superiority serves to keep your students in line at Hogwarts, sir, I can assure the effect is wasted on me. I asked you for your name, sir, and I will have it before we go any further.”

Taken aback by the menacing stare and cold glint in the boy’s eyes, the Englishman found himself responding without thought.

“Malfoy,” he said, disgusted at the noticeable catch in his voice. “Draco Malfoy.”

“Ah,” Devlin remarked, knowingly. The infamous Draco Malfoy. Uncle Ron had supplied him with numerous tales of the exploits of Draco Malfoy and his Slytherin cronies. But wasn’t there something else? Some detail he was overlooking? Something about Malfoy and his Mum?

“While I’m not at all certain my mother will want to see you, I have my own reasons for not retracting my earlier invitation,” Devlin said, then resumed his ascent up the concrete stairway. Noticing that Draco had not joined him, he looked back over his shoulder to where the man stood, a peculiar expression marring his handsome features. “Were you coming?”

Shaking himself mentally, Draco replied, “Yes, let’s not keep your mother waiting, shall we?” As he fell into step, he couldn’t help but marvel at the boy’s appearance. He looked so much like Hermione and yet his personality while jovial and warm, held a distinctly Slytherin side. And the way the boy had stood his ground when Draco had begun to belittle him had seemed chillingly familiar.

Growing more intrigued by the second, Draco allowed himself to be led away out of the Park. The last time he’s seen Hermione had been at his father’s sentencing in the High Court of the Ministry of Magic. She had testified as a key witness following her rescue and recovery from the revel where she had been the night’s entertainment. Eight months pregnant, she had taken the stand and recounted nearly every sordid detail of her capture and abuse. Because of the nature of the charges against him, Lucius’ trial had been closed to the public, with only a few journalists reporting on the outcome. Ultimately, he had been sentenced to life in Azkaban Prison without chance of parol or pardon.

Looking back, Draco couldn’t say that he had been sorry to see his father locked up. He only regretted the damage his father’s twisted sense of loyalty to that bastard Voldemort had done to the family name. On the other hand, fear of it did serve to keep errant students in line. He also regretted not keeping in touch with Hermione over the last several years. It would have been interesting to watch her son grow into the young man he now was. Stealing a sidelong glance, Draco appraised his companion, from his dark, curling hair to his rich, chocolate eyes. Yes, the boy was indeed Hermione’s son, but there was evidence of his sire there as well. The lanky build, sneering lips and not to mention that biting sarcasm.

“So, Devlin, tell me about yourself,” Draco said at long last, as the pair stepped out onto Sixth Street and headed towards the subway entrance.